


Is That a Calculator in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Excited to See Me?

by Snabulous



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explosions, Heist, M/M, Well - Freeform, an explosion, as of the season 2 finale, i have never seen a heist movie in my life and it shows, inspired by the weird amount of old counters and such in the smithsonian's collection, jupeter is mostly background, mostly - Freeform, set in some nebulous future where everyone is happy and they've gotten over all the Bad Stuff, the opportunity tag is a joke, this is about peter doing a job and generally having a good time about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17870087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snabulous/pseuds/Snabulous
Summary: In which Peter Nureyev conducts an easy, in-and-out heist on the Olympus Mons Museum of Martian History.





	Is That a Calculator in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Excited to See Me?

Depending on how you looked at it, the heist began two days ago.

It began with one Peter Nureyev - Arthur Vale, if anyone were to ask, though no one did - strolling casually up the extensive marbled stairs leading to the grandiose entrance of the Olympus Mons Museum of Martian History.

He surveyed his surroundings as he climbed, looking for all the world to be a disinterested tourist on the last legs of his vacation, having exhausted all other venues of entertainment. In reality, his detached gaze belied the sharp intent behind his eyes, pulling in and taking note of every detail, every escape route and entry point, everything and anything that could be of use that might not be visible from a floorplan of the building.

Inside, he perused the ancient artifacts, paintings and exhibits for nearly half an hour before coming to the most popular installation: one of the original Mars rovers, _Opportunity_ , sent from Earth to explore the surface of the planet.

It was incredibly old and rusted, red dirt encrusting the surface from years of exposure. Admittedly, it was much larger than Peter thought it would be, though he isn’t sure why he thought it would be smaller.

A gaggle of tourists huddled around the rover, snapping pictures and marveling. Along the walls were panels with enlarged photos of the rover and Mars’s surface and informational text below. These were less popular, but Peter made a show of lingering at each one, scanning the text but not long enough to absorb any of the information. He was merely part of the background, just as he had planned to be. The security guard’s eyes slid right past him and his brightly patterned shirt (borrowed from Juno, though frighteningly similar to many of those worn by the actual tourists), and the brim of his hat shielded his face from the security cameras’ keen lenses.

In the corner opposite the rover, uninhabited by any gawking museum-goers, Peter stopped and knelt to re-tie his shoe. Discreetly, he reached into the pocket of his skirt and pulled out a small object, the size of a pebble. It was small, greyish-brown, and nondescript enough that anyone who happened to notice it would think it _was_ a pebble. He set it on the floor close enough to the wall that no one would kick it accidentally and then straightened up before it began to look strange of him to take so long to tie his shoe.

Once he had done all that he came to do, Peter meandered through the hallways, eyes glancing over the paintings and artifacts, and eventually made it back to the entrance.

The museum really was beautiful, if not a little gaudy. The building was once a wealthy family’s home, and Peter could imagine it a hundred years ago in its prime. To get back to the exit, he had to go down a flight of stairs into the main lobby, and from the landing he could see the room as it had been, a richly painted, elegant foyer leading to a grand, genuine wood staircase.

It was pleasant; very rarely was he able to admire his target so thoroughly before striking.

* * * * *

The day of the heist, the museum had a large-scale power surge thirty minutes before closing that knocked out all the lights and every security camera and sensor in the place.

Peter most certainly had something to do with it, but they would never know that. Ignorance is bliss, or something like that.

From his perch atop the building diagonal from the museum, Peter watched the lights shut off all at once. Grinning into his comms, he said, “Thank you, Rita, dear. That was absolutely stunning.”

“Sure thing,” came Rita’s voice with about a thousand exclamation marks. “Need me to do anythin’ else?”

“Not currently, but do please stay available throughout the night, if you would.”

“You got it!”

Peter watched as museum patrons below filed out of the darkened building.

Rita’s estimation was that he had about five hours until they could fix the power, so he had less than that to do the job. _Four hours would be more than enough_ , he mused as the sun began to lower behind the skyscrapers, _but best to err on the side of caution_.

* * * * *

Under the cover of night, Peter made his way to the back entrance of the museum. His vision was colored green by the night vision goggles inlaid in his mask. It was the ugliest thing, but it was functional. He came through the expansive rock gardens, hiding in the shadows of the larger boulders and giving the patrolling security guard a wide berth. When he came up to the back door, labeled with a sign that read “EMPLOYEES ONLY,” he stepped around the corner of the building, out of sight from anyone walking towards him, and took out his comms.

“Now, Rita,” he muttered into it.

On the other side of the museum, the small, pebble-like device that sat dormant for two days in the Mars rover room exploded.

He listened for the noise and then waited. The outdoor guard heard it too and began running to the employee entrance. She made it in just under a minute, yelling back and forth with her comms, trying to figure out what happened. Then, she was inside, leaving Peter alone in the quiet night.

He turned the corner and put his ear to the door in front of him. Inside, there was a brief commotion, but after a minute, the room grew silent.

He pulled out his knife, anticipating any surprise meetings on his way. Then, he opened the door.

Inside was empty. It appeared to be a break room of sorts, with a table, a few chairs, and a game of solitaire laid out, apparently abandoned after the explosion.

Peter stepped inside and left the warm night air behind him.

The door opposite him was open, but he couldn’t see or hear anyone in the hallway beyond it. He expected the security staff ( _All_ eight _of them_ , he thought. _They really must do something about museum funding on Mars_.) to be preoccupied with the minor explosion on the other side of the building for at least another twenty minutes, and that was more than enough time to get in and out. Still, there was an element of unknown. The security sensors being out was a disadvantage to both Peter and the museum staff. They wouldn’t be able to see him, but he wouldn’t be able to know where _they_ were either. If there was someone on the other side of the wall, walking down the hallway, he would either have to take care of them or make a break for it.

It was _exhilarating_.

It felt like his early days, before he developed all the tricks up his sleeve, when he did simple thieveries on wealthy homes every other night just to survive. ( _Not_ , he thought with a slight internal grimace, _that that was an entirely pleasant time, but the jobs were so very exciting_.)

The hallway was empty, he found when he stuck his head out into it, so he took a left and continued down the featureless stretch, swift but silent, his already-soft footsteps further muted by the thick carpet. His knife was light in his hand, his ears pricking at the slightest noise. Ahead, outlined in the green of his night vision goggles, was a door that lead down a staircase and into the storage for the rest of the collection not on display. On a normal night, a guard would have been posted here, but his explosive distraction had pulled everyone from their usual orbits.

As he approached the door, he recalled the password to the digital lock, a long string of letters and numbers, so long, in fact, that it had taken him nearly five minutes to memorize it all. (Rita had had it down in seconds - he really must up his game.)

Peter looked over his shoulder and stared into the blank darkness behind him. No one was coming. He turned back to the door and switched off his night vision to see the display pad. He could just barely make out the letters and numbers without a flashlight, so he began typing away in the dark.

Thirty seconds and one hundred and twenty-seven characters later, the door unlocked with a tiny click. Peter turned the night vision back on, glanced over his shoulder one last time, and then started down the stairs, the door closing behind him.

The staircase led directly to the storage area. He couldn’t help but marvel at their lack of security down here. He knew funding was tight, but _really_. They could have at least splurged on an ID scanner. The lack of hurdles was making it all so very easy, and it may well ruin his night.

Endless rows of shelves filled the room, the tightly compacted kind, only accessible with the hand crank that pulls them apart for space maximization. In a couple places along the ceiling, Peter could see the tiny, blinking red lights of powered-off security sensors.

He probably had about an hour left before the power came back. Ten to fifteen minutes before the guards stationed in this area would return. After he stole the item, he would take the other stairwell up, the one across the storage room that led up to the ground floor, and then take the emergency exit by the gift shop before the power came back so the alarm wouldn’t go off.

He ran through the plan a few times as he searched for the right shelf. The labels said the one he was looking for was right… there. It would likely be a bit loud moving the shelves, so he needed to be quick in case he alerted anyone of his presence.

Peter tried to turn the crank with one hand until it became apparent that it was definitely a two-hand job. Even then, the shelves were heavy, and there were quite a lot of them. When they did start moving, a divide forming inch by inch, a metallic screech came from the gears and track that made him cringe. He kept going until there was a space big enough for him to open the drawer he needed.

When he stopped cranking, the awful noise stopped as well, and the silence felt thick in its absence. No one came charging down to catch him, so he assumed he was still in the clear and slid in between the shelves.

About halfway down, he found it.

He pulled the drawer open, and there it was. A huge collection of ancient calculators.

* * * * *

“I’m sorry, you want me to steal _what?_ ”

The man before him bristled slightly. “A calculator. I have a buyer that is willing to pay handsomely for it.”

Peter stifled his amazement. He’d stolen a great many things in his long, illustrious career, but never an ancient _calculator_.

“It is a TI-30XS, one of the very last surviving calculators from the 2000s,” the man said, sliding Peter a picture of what he assumed was it.

Peter looked at it. It was unremarkable, quite similar to the kind they use now, though perhaps lacking a few buttons. _I suppose_ , he thought, _there’s not much ground left to break when it comes to calculator design_.

* * * * *

_People collect the most unusual things_ , he mused, swiping the device and wrapping it in a few layers of brown paper. Then, he stowed it in his pocket and began to make his escape.

As he emerged from the shelves, he thought he could almost hear voices from the doorway up the staircase. He didn’t wait to find out, though. He cranked the shelves shut - they moved much faster the second time, and with much less noise - and made for the door across the room.

On his way, he passed a table covered in bins labeled with different years. Inside the bins, he noticed, were a number of objects, half-circles covered in lines and numbers made of various materials and of various stages of wear.

 _Protractors_ , he noted, slowing only slightly to look at them as he passed. Then, one caught his eye. It was plastic, pink, and had rhinestones glued along the straight edge, though some had fallen off over the years. It looked more like a child’s toy than a tool.

He stopped and stared at it.

His hand itched. 

_This is ridiculous_.

He snatched it up and shoved it in his pocket along with the calculator.

He climbed the stairs silently, taking them two at a time. The door at the landing only locked on the outside, so once he made it to the top, the only obstacle left between him and success was the possibility of security in the main lobby.

Just as he reached to open the door, a sudden beep and a loud voice in his ear sent him jumping out of his skin.

“Hello??” came Rita, so loud that Peter turned down the volume on his comms in case someone could hear her.

“Rita, darling, I’m nearly finished,” he hissed, needing this conversation to be fast and quiet. “What could you possibly need right this second?”

“I thought you might wanna know, cause see I was monitoring the team fixin’ the power and well, I was _mostly_ doin’ that anyway ‘cause Mista Steel asked me to help him with his computer and then-”

He cut in. “Rita, _why did you call me?_ ”

“Well, I was just about to say if you would just let me finish,” she said, and he could all but hear the indignant crossing of arms. “They’re fixin’ the power much faster than I thought. You probably still got time, but not a lot. Maybe twenty minutes, max.”

“Luckily, I’m all but out the door already,” Peter said, moving to open the door again. “I will comm you when I’m in the clear.”

He ended the call, and put his ear to the door, listening. It was quiet. On a normal night, there wouldn’t have been anyone in this part of the museum, and he didn’t expect anyone to be there then, but there was no need to take any chances.

A moment later, Peter slid into the back room that connected the gift shop and the stairwell down to storage. It was dark and empty, full of boxes of kitschy souvenirs and local artists’ knickknack designs. A few of them were open, and he was looking through them before he could stop himself.

 _What do people usually bring back from business trips?_ he wondered as he flipped through a stack of shirts with the museum logo printed across the front. He never had anyone to bring something back to, so it really wasn’t his area of expertise.

If he took the contents of the boxes as any example, he should have brought Juno back a collectible spoon with _Olympus Mons Museum of Martian History_ engraved on the handle.

He stared at the spoons.

Perhaps not.

Acutely aware of the clock ticking away precious minutes, he told himself he’d go through one last box and then just take one of the shirts with the terrible puns on it if he didn’t find anything.

But find something he did.

The last box was full of the tackiest snow globes Peter had ever seen. Truly awful. They were cartoon miniatures of the Mars rover _Opportunity_ inside cubes full of clear liquid and red glitter, supposedly to represent Martian sand.

Juno would _hate_ it. Or, at least, he would pretend to hate it and then put it somewhere he could see it, giving himself away.

A smile grew on Peter’s face, and he stuck it in his coat pocket.

Not a moment too soon, either, because just as he did, the lights came back on.

He darted for the door. As he escaped through the emergency exit, the fire alarms began to sound, but he was already halfway over the fence between the museum grounds and the rest of the city before anyone even thought to check the doors.

* * * * *

The next day, Juno and Peter, in a bout of late afternoon laziness, lounged on the little loveseat crammed in the kitchen space. Their legs folded across each other underneath a thin blanket that served more for security than warmth.

Juno played solitaire on his comms, the snowglobe resting in his lap with all the glitter settled at the bottom. He had nearly shorted out when Peter gave it to him, and he had _not_ appreciated it when he joked that he was nearly caught getting it. (“I was seconds away from being apprehended; I risked my _life_ to bring you back this beautiful souvenir, and this is all the thanks I get?” “You were _what?!_ ”)

Peter doodled on a scrap of paper and was telling Juno about the appalling lack of security at the Olympus Mons museum when Rita came into the kitchen in search of snacks.

“Heyyy, you two,” she said, drawing out her words suggestively.

Juno and Peter echoed greetings. Rita almost cut them off before they finished their hellos.

“Your little job last night made the news,” she snorted. “Apparently it’s real funny that someone breaks in undetected after an _explosion_ only to steal an ancient calculator and a protractor, of all things.”

Juno stared at Rita.

He turned to Peter. “A _protractor?_ ”

Peter looked up from the perfect half-circle he was drawing, lifting his hands incredulously. “What?”

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of writing my annotated bibliography, so i hope y'all liked it and had as much fun reading it as i had writing it.
> 
> html continues to be the bane of my existence, so please do alert me of any errors i have made.
> 
> <3


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